Carpathian 23 - Dark Storm

Bright streaks of red and orange fountained into the air. Ash and
     white-hot mud rained down. Fiery cannonballs of molten rock shot through the air.
     A river of lava poured out of the gaping wound in the side of the mountain, looking
     like long ribbons of thick, glowing taffy, twisted and bright, dropping to the forest
     below. Trees exploded, fiery bombs bursting into flames.
    Glowing eyes pierced the veil of the dark cloud and ash to spot the struggling black
     dragon. Red wings swept down in powerful strokes, propelling him high into the air.
     The experience was unlike any Dax had ever shared before. He was Dax with the Old
     One, watching, feeling and thinking with him, yet at the same time he was separate.
     It felt almost as if his consciousness was a visitor in the dragon’s body. The body
     wasn’t his own, and yet it was. The duality left him feeling dazed and a little disconnected.
    Yet despite the alienness of his current situation, Dax remained keenly aware of the
     blood dripping through the scales covering the dragon’s chest. Mitro had wounded Dax
     badly, and that wound had carried over through the transformation. Dax knew he needed
     to stop the blood loss, and soon. The dragon, however, cared little for the fluid
     leaking from his chest. Rage and dominance consumed the Old One’s mind as he raced
     toward the floundering vampire that wore the appearance rather than the true form
     of a black dragon. Banking left and using the ash cloud for cover, the Old One rode
     the volcano’s superheated updrafts to rise above Mitro. When he was positioned above
     the black dragon, the Old One tucked his wings tight and dove, rocketing downward,
     plummeting through smoke and ash at deadly speed.
    Mitro glanced up just as the red dragon extended its wings and brought its fore and
     hind legs around, talons extended for a strike. At first Dax thought Mitro would run,
     but when the black dragon only screamed a challenge and launched toward him, Dax realized
     Mitro had no idea he was confronting a true dragon rather than the weaker shapeshifted
     form of a dragon that Carpathians could assume at will.
    Mitro thought he had the upper hand.
    The Old One was confident that he had the greater size, greater skill, stronger position
     and momentum on his side. The kill seemed virtually assured.
    Inside the dragon, Dax struggled to come to grips with a storm of fierce emotions.
     Dax had always fought, always killed, with emotionless efficiency. The dragon did
     not. To the dragon, the fight was life, full of wildness, rawness and pulse-pounding emotions so vivid he could almost
     taste, touch, see and smell each one. Elation, pure and white, whirled with flames
     of fiery red aggression, and streaming banners of golden-bright pride. Dax’s mind
     and senses whirled with the overload.
    The red dragon slammed into the smaller black one, and they locked together, both
     falling out of the sky. Wings fluttered wildly, each dragon seeking balance and superior
     attack position. Long necks writhed. Fangs snapped and tore at scaly hides, seeking
     a killing bite. The talons of their back legs clutched each other with grim determination,
     while their forelegs tangled and ripped at vulnerable bellies.
    The Old One was stronger and bigger, driving his claws deep into Mitro’s belly ripping
     and tearing through the armored hide to the soft, vulnerable organs beneath. His claws
     penetrated with each stroke, removing scales and chunks of bleeding flesh.
    Within his black dragon form, Mitro screamed in shock and pain and insane rage. He’d
     been certain of his victory—certain of his physical superiority over Danutdaxton—but
     each of Dax’s blows struck deep, while each of Mitro’s own were turned away by diamond-hard
     scales and a seemingly impenetrable red hide. Mitro didn’t understand. How was this possible?
    He writhed wildly but could not break free of the red dragon’s fierce grip. Locked
     in a death battle he suddenly realized he might not win, Mitro began a desperate,
     brutal assault on Dax’s one possible weak spot: the scales over his heart where, even
     in dragon form, blood was seeping from the terrible wound Mitro had dealt him. With
     vicious determination and demonic speed, Mitro landed a series of punishing blows
     on the bloody spot. The chest plate bent, but before it could break, Dax’s fangs sank
     deep in Mitro’s shoulder, ripping out a massive chunk of flesh and